


The Paradox of Submission

by Minxie



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: KINK: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Submission is filled with paradox. Pain and pleasure. Enslavement and freedom. It's a circular and connected balance between apparent opposites.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Paradox of Submission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sulwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/gifts).



> **Prereader(s):** @shinyredrain, @thraceadams, @aislinntlc, @starting2fade  
>  **Disclaimer:** LIES. IT IS ALL LIES. (Unless Tommy is way more adventurous than we know. Then it's just fucking hot.)  
>  **AN:** For @Sulwen… thank you, darling! Hope this fits what you were looking for. ♥

Looking around, Tommy shakes his head. His life, it is the stuff of madness. That's the only explanation he has for coming to a leather bar. Christ.

He's obviously out of his fucking mind. Or he's seriously ready to make the leap.

He hadn't even given thought to where he was going, just got in his car and let his subconscious lead the way. His final destination had surprised the shit out of him. Not enough to make him back out of the parking lot and find somewhere else to play, but still… 

Staring at the entrance, Tommy shoots off a text to Sutan, setting up a safe call for later. Just in case this turns out the way he's hoping. He totally leaves out the fact that he's on the prowl for a Dom instead of a Domme. That's something he can explain when he _isn't_ sitting in front of a leather bar.

Tommy takes another look at the club. This may be his first time here, but everyone in the scene has heard about Arcanum, a split-level, semi-private leather bar. Open play areas on the ground level, private rooms upstairs. And not a Domme in sight.

Which is exactly why he's here.

He totally blames Adam for that shift in perspective. And, to a point, Terrance and Isaac, too. He just blames Adam the most. The fucker. 

Because before spending months with Adam on a tour bus – sharing kisses and blankets in a _mostly_ platonic way – Tommy had control of his dick. At least, he's pretty sure he had control of his dick. Especially where guys were concerned. 

He's always appreciated the visual of a hard belly with pretty eyes, but he had never been interested in taking it further. That shit started changing somewhere between Cabo and Wilkes-Barre. By the time Iowa rolled around, he had no problem pushing wood – and the rest of himself – against a piece of well-built pretty with a bright, boy-next-door smile without a second thought.

Tommy had almost slapped the shit out of Adam for breaking up that little bit of possible fun.

Shaking his head, Tommy rubs his palms over his thighs and releases a long breath. "Alright, Tommy Joe. Time to get off your ass," he mutters. Another deep breath and he pushes his way out of the car. "Going in doesn't mean you gotta act."

He rolls his eyes, recognizing the lie for what it is. No way is he gonna get this close to what he's been wanting and not come away with at least a handful of _something_.

* * *

He allows himself one Jack and coke and then switches over to straight coke. If the right guy comes up to him, he doesn't want to be flying and have to tell him no.

He's beginning to doubt that the right guy is here though. Not for the list of firsts he's working. First time kneeling for a guy. First time he's hoping – wanting, fucking _needing_ – for the kisses to be leading somewhere besides a cold shower.

Tipping the cup to his lips, Tommy smirks. Nothing like jumping in with both goddamn feet.

"Well," a deep voice rumbles from his left, "that look is full of mischief."

Tommy fights against the heat creeping up his neck. He loses the battle in a spectacular way. He cuts a glance to the side and forgets all about being caught making faces. Because the dude standing beside him? Is fucking hot. Like, making Tommy's dick twitch _hot_.

He's big and broad, large hands with rounded blunt nails. Amusement is dancing in his brown eyes and the smile turning the corners of his lips is gentle, friendly.

Setting his cup on the bar, Tommy cants his body towards the oh-hello-there stranger and says, "Hi."

"'Ello," he returns. "So, were you?"

"What?"

The guy turns and, with his back against the bar, looks out over the club and then puts his focus back on Tommy. His t-shirt stretches and bunches in all of the right places.

And all Tommy can think is, _Jesus_ , fuck. 

"Were you planning mischief?"

The blush comes back full force. "Um, not really. It was just a thought."

A chuckle rumbles through the guy, his chest vibrating beneath the taut pull of his t-shirt. "I don't know if that makes you more intriguing or makes me wonder if maybe you've stumbled into the wrong club."

"Intriguing," Tommy replies, fast and rushed. He swallows as he feels the blush crawl further up his neck and, then, his cheeks. "Though, to be honest, I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong club too."

"And now?"

Tommy gives the guy a blatant head-to-toe once over. "Now? I'm thinking I'm right where I need to be."

The guy snorts and then lets out a booming laugh. With a wicked smile, the guy says, "I'm Greg."

Tommy blinks once and takes a deep breath. Slowly he returns the grin. "Tommy Joe."

* * *

Fresh drinks in hand – another coke for Tommy, ginger ale for Greg – Greg nods towards a table in the corner, secluded in the shadows and away from the heavy beat of the music. "Good for you?"

"Good for me," Tommy replies, following Greg away through the scattered groups of people. He spends more time watching Greg's ass than paying attention to where he's going. The man fills out his denim really fucking well. 

A minute ticks off in silence as they get comfortable. Tommy's heartbeat is matching pace with the music, thumping chaotic in his ears. He's doing this. Really fucking doing this. Lost to everything swirling inside of him – fear and excitement, so fucking much satisfaction for taking this first step – Tommy almost – _does_ – miss Greg's question. "Pardon?"

With another one of those soft smiles, he says, "First time?"

"Yes and no," Tommy replies, fidgeting with the napkin wrapped around his cup.

Greg quirks an eyebrow. It's a demand for more information if Tommy's ever seen one.

"First time looking for some play? No." Tommy takes a fast sip of his coke. "Looking for it with a guy? Yeah."

"Oh. Oh, my. And tell me, Tommy Joe –" Tommy swallows against the budding anticipation, the low drawl of his name erotic and full of promise "– how far did you want this first time to go? Are you just looking for time out of your head, or do you want, perhaps even need, more? A little more? A lot more? Maybe even everything?"

Tommy swallows hard. Shit just got very real. His dick is aching and a whimper is building in the back of his throat. His skin is tingling and tight and Greg hasn't _done_ anything. Nothing more than ask a question. Fucking hell.

He thinks he might be in over his head after all.

"Guess that depended on who, yeah?" Tommy says, images of what he wants tumbling rapid-fire through his mind. None of them include full on sex. He's not ready for that. "But definitely not everything. Most likely not even _a lot_ more."

"Honesty," Greg murmurs. "Good boy. I'd have walked away if you'd said anything else."

The approval in Greg's voice wraps around Tommy's shoulders, blanketing and soothing his nerves. He shifts in his seat and sits a little straighter, more confident than he'd been only moments before. 

Chuckling, Greg taps a finger against the back of Tommy's hand and says, "You're preening like a peacock. It's very… becoming on you." 

The blush racing back to the forefront is uncontrollable, but Tommy resists the urge to look away. "Thank you."

"Penetration, of any kind, is a hard limit," Greg says. He gives Tommy a heated stare and then, without blinking, adds, "At least a hard limit for now. Other limits?"

Tommy nods, more to himself than in response to Greg's request. This is familiar ground. Negotiating is something that he has experience with. "Water sports, humiliation. Extreme play. And nothing that leaves permanent marks."

"Reasonable." Greg drags a finger through the condensation on his glass. "Now, give me something you _are_ looking for."

The answer comes fast and easy. "Heat. Not heavy, true pain –" because, yeah, _no_ , not with someone he doesn't know "– but stinging heat is awesome. Flogging and spanking that'll keep me warm through tomorrow."

Because he _really_ wants to feel it tomorrow. It's been too long for him to give it up too quickly.

"Enough to bring some color to your skin," Greg says. The cool assertiveness in Greg's voice has Tommy's dick jerking against the tight confines of his jeans. "Pinks and reds, and maybe a few purples. Something to compete with the blacks and greys of your tats."

"Fuck. Yeah, basically," Tommy grunts, turned on more than is reasonable considering the fact that they've just met. It's like Greg is hardwired to Tommy's brain – and in turn, Tommy's dick – and knows exactly what Tommy's thinking and wanting and needing. "Your turn, what do you like?"

"Bondage," Greg replies immediately. Before Tommy can say anything, he adds, "But not for a first time. If we agree, I'd expect you to maintain through force of will."

A series of shudders – whispers of _yes_ and _please_ and _want, want, want_ – ripple through Tommy's body. Biting back a moan, he grinds the palm of his hand against his dick. Coming in his pants is so not an option.

"Can you do that, Tommy Joe?" Greg leans towards Tommy, his lips skating close to Tommy's cheek. "Would you do that for me? Fight against the instinct to move and force yourself to be still, to take what I give you?"

Imagining it is all too easy for Tommy. The moan he's been holding back tumbles out.

"Look at you. So needy," Greg murmurs, thumb brushing along Tommy's jaw. "I want you, Tommy Joe."

Closing his eyes, Tommy pushes into Greg's touch. "Yes."

Scratching lightly through the scruff on Tommy's cheek, Greg growls low in his throat.

The sound rips through Tommy, twisting and twirling along his nerves. "Please."

"Give me your words, boy."

* * *

The door closes with a snick behind Tommy. The walk to the playroom – through the club and up the staircase along the back wall – is a blur. Tommy's still lost in the kiss – the possession of his mouth – that followed his muttered, "Red and yellow work for me."

If Greg plays with half as much focus as he kisses, Tommy knows he's in for a good fucking ride.

Tommy makes a quick pass of the room. Clean, well put together, and generic enough that it almost feels familiar. He's been in rooms like this one before: cross in the corner, bed big enough for three, and pillows _everywhere_. The one open cabinet reveals a bevy of floggers. Fur and suede, some of them knotted and at least one with tiny weights braided into the tresses. The signature page, documentation of cleaning procedures, hangs prominently on the back of the door.

Greg's hands slip under Tommy's shirt. His fingers move fast and deft over Tommy's skin, pinching and scratching and tweaking until goosebumps break over Tommy's arms and his nipples draw into tight peaks. Humming, Greg crowds Tommy towards the door. Once Tommy is caught between the broad span of Greg's chest and the unyielding wooden door, Greg maneuvers Tommy's arms high above his head and works the worn t-shirt up and off.

With his wrists pinned in one of Greg's hands, Tommy closes his eyes, blocks out everything but the sensation of Greg tracing an invisible path over his chest, circling one nipple and then the other and then back to the first again. He trembles under the weight of Greg's touch.

Nuzzling Tommy's neck, Greg asks, "Warm enough?"

Warm doesn't even begin to cover it. Need and expectation, desire and the restless thread of apprehension are all bouncing off one another, zipping just below the surface. It's a raging inferno looking for an escape, for the tiniest slip of oxygen that will set it free.

He's not just warm. He's burning the fuck up.

"Yea…" Tommy stops and swallows, then tries again. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Liar," Greg replies, then a low chuckle rumbles out. "You may be warm enough, but you're about to vibrate out of your skin. Nervous?"

Tommy shakes his head. He's not nervous. Really, he isn't. "Ready," he says. "I'm just –" looking like a slut and on the verge of shooting "– ready."

"Let's get to work then." Greg takes a step back and, one handed, tugs his shirt over his head.

Before it even registers, Tommy reaches out, drawn to everything the t-shirt was hiding. No ink, no scars. Just inches and inches of pretty brown skin, of rolling, muscled definition. Shoulders and chest and abs. And, _christ_ , Tommy wants to touch and taste and fucking _touch_.

It's a contradiction – the promise of both hard strength and silky smooth skin – and it's fucking with Tommy's brain. 

Greg catches Tommy's hand before he can make contact. Greg's fingers circle Tommy's wrist, squeezing just enough to let Tommy know who is in charge. "Strip for me, Tommy Joe."

With Greg still holding his wrist, Tommy toes off his creepers and then his socks. He pops the button on his denims one-handed and then, looking at Greg, he flexes the fingers of his caught hand and whispers, "Please."

Nodding, Greg lets go of Tommy's wrist and steps over to the cabinet. Tommy eases his jeans and his underwear over his hips, kicks them free and, watching Greg's every move, folds them and sets them to the side. He shudders when Greg turns around, two floggers held in his grip.

"To the cross, pretty boy." Greg motions towards the cross with the floggers, the tails dancing through the air with a quiet swish, _swish_ , swish.

Tommy moves on instinct. 

Greg steps in close behind Tommy and slowly pushes Tommy's arms higher. "Grab the rings and hold on tight."

The soft brushed-denim of Greg's jeans scratches over Tommy's ass and thighs, his breaths ghost moist and warm over Tommy's ear. 

Tommy is losing himself to the moment.

Every detail – the sound of denim pulling as Greg steps away from the cross, the cold press of the lacquered wood, the colliding scents of his sweat and arousal and _need_ – is ratcheting as each second passes, surrounding him in a heavy blanket of sensation.

Greg's voice, heavy and rough, breaks through Tommy's haze – _don't let go, Tommy Joe_ – and the air fills with the hiss and snap of the flogger. Just as Tommy releases the air in his lungs, the tails of the flogger skate against his back once and then twice and then once again.

Under the onslaught – the bite and the sting and the burgeoning heat – Tommy groans. "Fuck."

Greg huffs a laugh. "Not tonight, Tommy Joe."

The whips on the flogger rain down against Tommy's ass with a _rat-a-tat-tat_ …

And again and then again, the tails pulling slow and teasing across the cleft of his ass. 

And again, higher, dancing across Tommy's shoulder blade, down the right side of his rib cage.

Tommy's dick fills and jerks. The heat starts to spread, moving from his back and his ass to his shoulders and his arms, spiraling down his legs. His need bursts out over his skin in the sheen of sweat, and drips from his cock in the sticky precome. Dropping his head forward, he shivers and moans and begs for more. Begs for Greg to do something. For him to do _any_ thing.

The lengths of the flogger – the perfect strips of suede – snap against the tender juncture where ass meets thigh. Two… three… six of the tails curl inward and lick feather-light over Tommy's balls. Tommy's breath catches and his eyes flutter shut, the pain – the rush – zips from his cock to his spine and then erupts into a firework of _yes_ and _Jesus, fuck_ and _now, now, now_. 

Tommy whimpers low in his throat. "Please, need to… gotta…"

"What do you need?" 

The leather kisses Tommy again, wrapping around his inner thigh and branding the pale skin a cherry red.

"Please," Tommy whispers, his arousal approaching overwhelming. Shaking, he tightens his grip on the rings, squeezing until his knuckles bleed to white. "Greg, please…" 

The blow from the flogger that Tommy's expecting never comes. Instead he gets the hot press of Greg, his jeans dragging rough over the marks on Tommy's ass and his chest pushing in against Tommy's back. Tommy lets his head fall back against Greg's chest. "Please."

Greg busses a kiss over Tommy's temple. "Tell me what you need, Tommy Joe. Give me the words."

Body bowstring tight, the words tumble out of Tommy one after another. "I need to come, please. Fuck. Aching, so fucking hard." When Greg reaches around and curls one hand around Tommy's cock, the words start tripping over each other. "Yes, thank you… please, more. Need, need… fuck."

Greg nuzzles against Tommy's neck and then, fingers closing tight around Tommy's cock, whispers, "At your leisure, boy."

With Greg bites down on his shoulder, Tommy falls. His mind blanks out and, releasing a high-pitched whine, he comes.

"Well done, boy," Greg murmurs. "Very well done."

* * *

Greg crowds Tommy against the cross and, reaching up with his hand, starts working Tommy's grip off of the rings. "Let go, pretty boy."

Tommy's too relaxed, too sated to offer even a token resistance. He leans into Greg, then sighs when he's scooped up and carried – fucking a-well _carried_ – to the bed. It's new and different, something that's never happened before but definitely something he can get used to.

It's after Greg settles Tommy on the bed and then stretches out beside him – a cool cloth running over the heated welts on Tommy's back and his denim-clad erection hot against Tommy's thigh – that Tommy realizes Greg hasn't come. "You're still dressed."

Lips twitching, Greg nods. "Pretty and observant. Nice."

Rolling his eyes, Tommy reaches out and flicks at the row of buttons on Greg jeans. "Take 'em off. Please."

"Tommy Joe." Greg's voice is raspy and broken and interested. So fucking interested.

It's the interest in Greg's voice that spurs Tommy on, makes him push over the hump of being so completely out of his element.

"Please," Tommy says again, hand cupping the bulge of Greg's erection. "I might not be ready for everything, but that doesn't mean I don't want to touch and to help –" a blush explodes over Tommy's cheeks "– and to watch."

He definitely wants to watch.

"Christ, boy," Greg moans. Hands working his button fly, he adds, "Don't… don't do anything you don't _want_ to do."

"Yeah, okay," Tommy mutters, hands flexing and curling – _itching_ – to reach out and touch.

Greg kicks free of his jeans and rolls onto his back, his cock hard and dark and enticing.

Tommy flicks his eyes to Greg's face, waits the two seconds it takes for Greg to nod permission, and then, because he can't fucking resist the lure any longer, Tommy reaches out and dances the pads of his fingers over Greg's cock. 

It's hard and smooth, wet at the tip. Thick and long, and pushing out heat. And it jerks when Tommy adds a little pressure to his touch. Tommy really wants to crawl to the space between Greg's legs and bask in Greg. In the scent and the touch, the taste.

He really fucking wants to taste.

He trembles as the thoughts – images of just losing himself in this man – take over his brain. He hopes to fuck that Greg is gonna want to see him again.

"You're killing me, Tommy Joe," Greg moans, dropping his head against the mattress. "Please, pretty boy, do _something_ or back the fuck off so I can."

Pulling back from Greg's cock, Tommy looks up and grins. Keeping his gaze locked with Greg's, he drags his tongue over his palm, makes a show of licking and sucking until his hand is sloppy wet. Riding the perfect high of pain and release, he lets the energy of the moment, of the flawless dance of give and take, carry him and he curls his fingers around Greg's cock, jacking him off in with a steady rhythm.

Without a word, Greg covers Tommy's hand with one of his own and tightens Tommy's hold. 

Tommy watches, eyes darting between Greg's face and Greg's cock and back to his face again. The emotions flittering over Greg's face are fascinating. Greg chases his release the same way he'd gone after Tommy: confident and easy in his skin. His cheeks flush, skin going from pecan tan to a deeper walnut brown, and his eyes drop to half-mast.

The picture he paints is sexy as hell, reminds Tommy of the husky sound of old-time blues. Of smoky bar rooms and couples swaying to a heavy beat, making promises on a dance floor that can't be fulfilled until they're behind closed doors.

It makes Tommy want. Want so much more than the traded hand jobs and toe-curling kisses.

Greg's mouth drops open and his tongue darts out and licks across his bottom lip and Tommy is so fucking distracted, so goddamn turned-on – again, turned-on _again_ – that he's surprised, a-fucking-well _shocked_ , when the moist heat of Greg's come streaks against his hand.

* * *

Tommy shows up at Adam's with a six-pack of beer, a bag full of tacos, and Greg firmly on his mind. He put off calling the man for seven days, not wanting to come across as too needy. And then, when he finally gave into the urge and dialed, he was left leaving a message.

Greg's voice was just as ridiculously hot on the voice mail as he'd remembered.

"Tommy," Sauli says, ushering him into the house with a smile and a tilt of his wine glass. "Adam is in the back."

"Pool?" Tommy asks.

"Yes." Sauli takes the six-pack and heads to the kitchen. "There is beer out already. We'll save this, yes?"

"Cool with me, man." 

Adam surrounds Tommy in a hug the minute he steps onto the patio. "You've been M.I.A. for a few days. Was starting to get worried about you."

"Did what you told me to do and went out." Tommy pops a Corona open and pulls a good third of it down in the first swallow. 

"Get laid?"

"No." And then, because Tommy's mouth has a mind of his own, he adds, "I met a guy though. Played some."

One of Adam's brows wings up. "A guy? Seriously?"

Tommy jerks his head, nodding once. "Definitely was a dude."

"And you didn't call me?" Amusement and pride and a little bit of worry clouds Adam's eyes. "I think I should be offended."

"Whatever, fucker," Tommy grumbles. "It was spur of the moment, yanno? Ended up at Arcanum when I was really headed somewhere else."

"You were safe?" Adam asks, a fuckton of big brother concern filling the space between the words.

"We played, Adam. I'm always safe when I play." Tommy tips his beer back again. It's always weird talking about the lifestyle with Adam. For someone so fucking dominating, he really is a furry handcuffs kind of guy. He just doesn't get Tommy's desire, his need, to twine pain and pleasure together. 

It's probably the one reason their making out never went beyond making out.

Rolling his eyes, Tommy says, "We've had that discussion before."

"No sex then?" 

"Hard limit for now. I was paying attention when you said to experiment and not rush." And hadn't that been a lovely conversation. Not. Nothing like having your very own Gay Messiah as a best friend. "Besides, man," Tommy says, ignoring the blush building in the background, "I want that to mean something, yeah?"

Sauli drags a hand down Tommy's back, calming him. "Good choice."

"If something happens, you'll…"

"Hush, Adam," Sauli says, using his free hand to cover Adam's mouth. "Tommy will let you know when he wants your help."

Tommy kind of wants to kiss Sauli for shutting Adam up. The whole situation is awkward enough. The phone rings and, glancing down at the number, the blush Tommy's been holding back bursts bright and hot over his cheeks. Thumbing the screening, he says, "Hey. Greg."

Ignoring the catcalls, Tommy walks towards the fence at the back of Adam's yard. It's nowhere near far enough away to drown Adam and Sauli out, but at least he doesn't have to actually see them. Or be seen by them. This thing is so new that he wants – _has to_ – keep part of it – _most of it_ – private. He wants to hold on to it for as long as he can.

Five minutes later, with a grin curling soft around the edges of his lips, Tommy's back in Adam's orbit and popping the top off of another beer. 

"So?" Adam asks, face a wide-open landscape of curious and happy. Adam's nothing but a gossip hound. "Was that him? Did you invite him over? You know you can, right? I want to meet him." Then, when Tommy just smirks, Adam adds, "Tell me, dammit."

"That was him and fuck no, I didn't invite him over." Sipping his beer, Tommy shakes his head. "He doesn't know I play for you, so not springing that on him this early in the game."

"But?"

Tommy gives two seconds of thought to dragging it out, to making Adam wait for an answer. Then, because he's actually fucking excited about it, says, "Date, tomorrow night."

"Play date," Adam drawls, "or the real thing?"

"Dinner but no movie." Tommy tells himself to stop grinning, that he's acting like a hormonal teenager and it's unbecoming. All it does is make him grin even more. "Going to his place so we can talk without people eavesdropping. He's going to cook for me."

"Well that's a fuck of a lot better than you trying to cook for him," Adam retorts, laughing when Tommy flips him off. "Check in with me, okay?"

Tommy agrees, knowing that he'll be more relaxed if he has a safe call. "I'll text you all of the information, okay?"

Adam nods and then pushes at Tommy's shoulder until he falls back onto a chaise. "Now, really, tell me. Is he a pretty boy? And what's his last name? We can have Neil check him out."

"Absolutely not," Tommy grunts. "I told you and Sauli. That's it. I'm not telling anyone else. Not right now."

"Got it. No one else," Adam says, voice full of understanding. Then, the happy puppy version of Adam comes right back out to play. "Seriously, is he pretty?"

Sauli shakes his head. "Tommy would want someone big, solid and real. Right?"

"Pretty much," Tommy replies, knowing he's opening the door for more questions. Pointing to Adam, he says, "He's taller and broader than you."

Before the night is over, very little about his time with Greg hasn't been discussed. Adam, much to Tommy's mortification, has no shame whatsoever and asks very pointed questions.

Tommy's single solace is that there's no way negotiating with Greg could ever be half as embarrassing as Adam Lambert in interrogation mode.

* * *

Leaning against the counter, watching as Greg rinses their plates and loads them in the dishwasher, Tommy says, "Dinner was awesome. Thank you."

"You sound surprised."

"More like impressed," Tommy replies. "It was definitely beyond anything I could do in the kitchen."

Closing the dishwasher, Greg chuckles softly. "Cooking can be relaxing. If this goes further, I'm going to expect you to at least help in the kitchen." Then, grabbing two beers from the fridge, he asks, "Outside or inside?"

"Inside." Greg's house is warm and inviting, full of overstuffed furniture in deep hues of brown and blue. Tommy feels comfortable and safe. It's the same way he'd felt when they hooked up at the club. 

"Den, then," Greg says, leading Tommy through an archway off of the kitchen. 

Greg walks straight over to a stereo system and hits a button, filling the room with the soft sounds of instrumental jazz. Tommy totally approves the selection. He sits down and leans his head back; his eyes close and he just lets himself bask in the music.

"You look content," Greg murmurs, sitting down beside Tommy. 

"I am," Tommy admits, opening his eyes and focusing on Greg. "It was… I was expecting it to be awkward."

Passing Tommy his beer, Greg asks, "Why?" 

"I don't know." Tommy takes a sip of the beer and sets it aside. He's way more interested in talking to Greg than he is in working a buzz. "It's… this is new. I've never…"

"Had dinner with a guy before?" 

The teasing tone pulls a smile from Tommy. "Ass. Yes, I've had dinner with a guy before."

Greg nods and hums. "Dinner with a guy who has kissed you then?"

Adam and Isaac and Terrance flit through Tommy's mind. He's macked on all of them. He resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Greg. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Greg replies. "I want you to tell me anyway."

Tommy swallows once. "I submitted to you."

"And you did it beautifully." Greg trails a finger over Tommy's cheek. 

"I jacked you off," Tommy adds, doing his best to ignore the way his cock fills and pushes against the zip of his jeans.

Greg growls low in his throat. "That you did."

Seconds tick off slowly. Then, when Greg arches an eyebrow, Tommy says, "I want to do it again."

"Is that all you want, Tommy Joe?"

The blush Tommy's been fighting takes over, spreading heat up his neck and over his jawline. "No." Tommy frowns, his brows pulling together into a wrinkle. "You weren't worried about any of this?"

"I was worried you weren't going to call. Once you did, the rest was pretty easy to deal with," Greg replies, fast and to the point. "Don't ever make me wait a week again, boy."

"No, I won't." Just to make sure he's reading everything right, Tommy asks, "So we're doing this?" If Greg says no Tommy is going to pitch one hell of a fit, after he slinks home with his tail between his legs. Then, when he's in his own room, he's going to melt the fuck down. 

"Oh, yeah," Greg mutters, sliding closer to Tommy. "We are definitely doing this."

With a hand twisting Tommy's shirt, Greg pulls him closer and kisses him. It's all teeth and tongue with a hint of dominance. Never-ending, breath-stealing. Fucking perfect.

And if it keeps up much longer Tommy's gonna be close to shooting in his shorts. He's not minding that prospect as much as he thinks he should.

* * *

Lips swollen and hot, Tommy leans against Greg. "So we need to talk some, huh?"

"We do." Greg presses a chaste kiss to Tommy's forehead. "If it happens now or not depends on if we're limiting ourselves to scenes or looking for more."

Biting down on his lip, Tommy wrinkles his nose. He's not good at boxing his submission away until it's time for a scene. He's more of an all the time kind of guy. "How good are you with that?"

"Keeping it separate?"

"Yeah." Tommy chews on his bottom lip, a nervous tic that he hasn't squashed out completely.

"Don't make that lip bleed, Tommy Joe," Greg grunts, rubbing his thumb over Tommy's lip. "And not very. I tend to stomp all over everything. You?"

"Yeah, um, kinda like you. I don't do separate well. Knowing the place and the time when certain things aren't okay? I can do that. Tone it down when I need to, yanno?" Tommy glances up through his bangs. "But totally separate? Not so much."

The look Greg gives him is pleased. And smug. It makes Tommy's lips twitch. The way Greg's fingers tighten on Tommy's waist – possessive and hot – makes his breath hitch and his dick jerk within the confines of his jeans. Jesus. He's so damn easy.

"Then I'd say some talking needs to happen sooner rather than later." 

Tommy nods. Some talking and then some more of that kissing would suit Tommy just fine. "Agreed."

"I'll want your schedule a week ahead," Greg says. "I know that as a musician it's rarely going to be the same week-to-week."

"Well, actually, there're times it will be." Tommy sits up and gives Greg a serious look. It's time to see how the man reacts to Adam's name. "I play for Adam Lambert. His second album is dropping in a few months. There'll be promo and tour and, you know, all that kind of stuff."

Greg blinks once and then once more. "That's a… do you always play your talent down?"

It's not the reaction Tommy expects. People coo over him, some try to use him as a way to get to Adam. No one has ever taken him to task for downplaying himself. "Um, really, I told you I played guitar."

"And conveniently left off the whole who you're playing for." Greg shakes his head. "We'll be working on your self-image, Tommy. I demand that you hold yourself with as much regard as I do. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I understand." Tommy's lips quirk into a tiny smile. Greg acknowledged who Adam is, but his focus was still on Tommy. The warm fuzzy feeling working its way through him is making Tommy feel like a dork. "I'll work on that."

" _We'll_ work on that." With a finger beneath Tommy's chin, Greg pushes gently until Tommy is meeting his gaze head-on. "This is an us, or it's nothing."

"Us," Tommy repeats. "We'll work on that."

"Exactly." Greg pecks Tommy's lips and then smiles. "Okay, schedule. I'll want yours as far in advance as you have it. Mine is pretty set, but I'll make sure you have it and my daytime contact numbers before you leave."

Tommy hums. The more they talk, the more he relaxes. He's always more settled when he's in a twenty-four, seven thing. "Formality?"

"I'll demand strict formality at the club or any parties."

"And here?"

" I don't like contrived statements. Greg, is fine. Sir works too. Master only when you mean it." Greg grabs his beer off the table, taking a swallow for himself and then passing it to Tommy. "Reasonable?"

"Totally," Tommy murmurs, then tips the bottle to his lips. Swallowing, he asks, "You're a nurturer aren't you?"

"I'm all encompassing," Greg retorts. "There's nothing I won't do for you, and there is very little I won't do to you. Earning your complete trust and meeting your needs – physical, sexual, mental – that's my goal for myself."

"And your goals for me?" 

"The trust thing goes both ways," Greg says, plucking the beer bottle out of Tommy's hands.

"Of course." 

"Pushing your boundaries, finding your true limits and stretching just a little bit beyond them. Date, play, laugh. There's a lot of us moments on your goals." Greg traces random patterns over Tommy's abdomen, his fingers crossing the edge of Tommy's shirt and dancing across bare skin and then back again. "Means we're going to have a long, serious talk. Work the checklist."

Tommy racks his brain, trying to remember how the checklist is broken down. It's been so long since he's negotiated for more than one night, he can't remember all of the particulars. 

Greg's thumb rubs between Tommy's brows. "What has you frowning?"

"Trying to remember if something specific is on that list." As soon as the words are out, Tommy knows he's in for a few questions. He doubts Greg will let a full minute pass before calling him out on it. 

He was right. Nowhere near a minute ticks away before Greg says, "Then we need to talk about that one tonight."

Closing his eyes, Tommy reminds himself that trust starts with conversations like this. That doesn't make it any easier. "Penetration."

"Good boy," Greg whispers. The praise gives Tommy just what he needs to sit a little straighter and face the conversation without blinking. Then, Greg smiles and, with a louder voice, asks, "Because you want it or because you're afraid of it?"

Tommy's body tightens. Anticipation, need, wariness. "Both?"

Greg arches a brow. "You asking or telling?"

"Telling," Tommy replies. "It's both. I want it, but…"

"You're leery," Greg supplies after Tommy falls silent.

Tommy nibbles his lip again. Leery makes him sound like a wuss. Like he doesn't really want to get fucked. And, really, what is there to be _leery_ of? It's just sex, right? Right. He's definitely being a pussy about it.

"Boy," Greg growls softly, pushing a finger against Tommy's lip and then into his mouth. "If anyone makes you bleed, it'll be me."

The threat – _promise_ – skates over Tommy's nerves. Licking Greg's finger, following it as Greg pulls back, he murmurs, "Yeah, okay."

"It shows good sense."

It takes a second for Tommy to catch back up in the conversation. When he does, he frowns. "Huh?" 

Shrugging, Greg says, "The unknown always brings an edge of anxiousness. Something so personal should definitely happen only after careful thought."

"But…"

"We'll get there." Greg smirks and then, voice dropping to a deep gravel, adds, "And by the time we do, you'll be begging for my cock."

"Oh, _fuck_."

"Eventually," Greg chuckles. "But we'll start out slow. Tongue and fingers, maybe a plug or two."

Tommy clenches his ass and rocks his hips forward and then back again. He tells himself that the whimper escaping his throat is a totally manly sound.

"Listen to you," Greg murmurs, leaning in and mouthing a string of kisses along Tommy's jaw. "My pretty boy likes the idea of that. Of being opened slowly and made ready for my cock."

Then Greg is kissing him, stealing Tommy's words and his moans. Stopping Tommy from begging and pleading, from asking for something he _knows_ he isn't ready for but wants all the same. Tommy shudders and then goes lax, just rides the wave as one kiss morphs into another and then another.

Slowly the kisses go from invasive and all-consuming to easy, almost chaste brushes of lips. Nuzzling against Greg's chest, Tommy says, "Please tell me we're done with the talking."

"I was actually planning on suggesting a movie and some making out." 

Feeling a tiny bit mischievous – and a whole lot horny – Tommy asks, "And at least a little bit of fondling?"

Greg huffs a quick laugh, more vibration than actual sound. "Thought you were done with negotiating for tonight."

"Yeah, well, this one seems pretty straight forward."

Gently pushing Tommy off of his lap, Greg stands up. "Make your safe call, Tommy Joe. I'll see if I have something more… appropriate you can put on."

Laughing, Tommy whips off a quick text to Adam – _apparently i am getting a movie with my dinner. call u tomorrow._ – and then toes off his shoes and socks. He can't imagine Greg having anything that will actually fit, but, really, the baggier the better. It'll make the fondling easier to come by.

* * *

"So?"

Tommy looks over from his place on the lounge and parrots Adam. "So?" 

"It's been over three weeks, aren't you ever going to tell me about your date?"

"What's to tell? Dinner and a movie can only go so many ways." It takes everything in Tommy to keep from smiling. In the end, he loses the battle. "First one was good. All of them since, even better."

Rolling his eyes, Adam flips Tommy off. "You're a brat, Tommy Joe Ratliff."

Chuckling, Tommy says, "So I've been told."

Greg had called him a brat last night. And then promptly tipped Tommy over his knees and peppered his ass with fast stinging swats. He'd been deliciously warm for hours.

Adam fishes a piece of ice from his drink and tosses it at Tommy, laughing when Tommy spills his beer rolling out of the way. "Serves you right for holding out."

"What the hell?" Tommy licks the beer dripping off of his fingers. "How did I hold out?"

"The date was three _weeks_ ago," Adam says. 

"And?" Tommy asks, sincerely confused. 

"Seriously?"

"He wants details," Sauli says, sculling water and bringing his raft close to the edge of the pool. "I've distracted him many times from calling you."

Tommy snorts. The smug look on Sauli's face isn't really screaming that distracting Adam was a hardship.

"And I want to meet him," Adam says. 

Tommy arches a brow. "You want to interrogate him."

"Semantics," Adam replies, waving his hand through the air. "Call him. Find a time for us to all hang out. Invite him here. We can just lay around by the pool, no pressure or anything."

"Now?" Tommy halfway hopes Adam says no. Except he really doesn't. He's met some of Greg's friends, knows Greg wants to meet his. And he isn't worried that Adam and Greg won't get along. That one is pretty much a guarantee.

Adam nods and pushes Tommy's phone across the tiny, poolside table. "Yeah, what the hell else are we doing today? It's not like it's an actual work day."

Before he can find an excuse, Tommy texts Greg and sits back to wait.

His phone rings almost immediately, and Greg is on his way to Adam's five minutes after that. 

Tommy takes a long draw of his beer. His day just got more interesting.

* * *

Tipping his soda to his lips – the beer had been replaced with cold cans of coke minutes after Greg arrived – Tommy grins. He had no reason to be worried. Watching Greg and Sauli flick water at each other in the pool pretty much proves that.

"You lied to me, Tommy," Adam says. "That man is very pretty."

Elbowing Adam, he says, "I never said he wasn't. I just agreed when Sauli said he was built."

"It's been a good month with him, huh?"

"It has," Tommy confirms. "You get all of your questions answered?"

Adam shrugs. "I got most of them answered just by watching you when he showed up."

Tommy quirks a brow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Adam says, so earnest it makes Tommy's teeth ache. "You just kind of melted into him. I hadn't even realized you were stressing out. But he whispered something in your ear and then it was obvious. You feel safe with him."

He acknowledges Adam's comment with a grunt. No reason to add any words to the truth.

"You were nervous about me meeting him."

"Maybe," Tommy replies, shifting from foot-to-foot. The conversation is beginning to get uncomfortable.

"You shouldn't've been." Adam nudges Tommy with his shoulder. "Seriously. You totally welcomed Sauli into our little group. Why'd you think I would do anything different with Greg?"

"I didn't." The answer comes lightning fast. He trusted Adam with Greg. 

"Okay." Adam licks his lips. "Then what was it?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

Wishing it was something stronger than straight pop, Tommy drains his glass. "I didn't want to smack you in the face with the fact that I'm his sub."

Frowning, Adam shakes his head. "We've talked about that part of your life, Tommy."

"Talking and seeing?" Tommy snorts. "Totally different things, dude."

Adam takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. It's a sign Tommy recognizes from tour. Adam is getting frustrated and searching for the right words. "Look," Adam says, "I may not understand the whys of it all, but your smile? That I do understand. And as long as that is happening, I'm good."

The fierceness of Adam's claim has Tommy relaxing a little. Making shit strained between them was a serious worry of his. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Just when Tommy starts looking for an excuse to end the conversation, Greg shouts from the pool. "Hey, pretty boy! Get your ass over here and save me from this imp."

Tommy's lips twitch. "You could just get out of the pool."

"And let him win?" The indignant look on Greg's face matches his tone perfectly. "I don't think so. Get over here, boy."

The sound of Adam's ridiculously bubbly laughter follows Tommy into the pool.

* * *

Turning off the water and putting his toothbrush away, Tommy says, "Today was good."

"It was," Greg replies, nuzzling against Tommy's neck.

Watching their reflection is almost as mesmerizing for Tommy as the feel of Greg's fingers dancing over his chest. Tommy shudders and shifts, pushing into Greg's touch. 

"Good boy," Greg says. "Don't ever hide from me."

A blush stains Tommy's chest pink. Learning to not shy away had been a chore, an internal battle of fighting his instinct to cover up. The difference between his body and Greg's was – _is_ – intimidating. The touches, though, more than make up for the discomfort, easing Tommy through the desire to curl into himself. 

Greg nips Tommy's shoulder and lands a soft tap against his ass. "On the bed, Tommy Joe. I want to tie you up and play."

Moaning, Tommy follows Greg into the bedroom. When Greg cants his head, he sits on the edge of the bed. Tommy holds his questions in, stops himself from watching Greg's every move. This is his time to start finding the quiet in his head, to start the journey to the place where all of the motion stops, where colors are brighter and sounds border on overwhelming.

Where everything fades until Tommy is suspended – time and place – and focused on Greg. 

The bed dips behind him and then Greg is gentling Tommy onto his back sideways on the bed, pillows stacked beneath his hips. Then he stretches Tommy's arms up and away from his body and slowly works length of black hemp around Tommy's wrists, binding them together with a series of figure eight loops. He pulls the tail of the rope taut, hooking it over the side of the mattress and down to the bedframe.

"That's it, pretty," Greg says, moving around the bed. "Just give yourself over to me."

Nodding, Tommy takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Humming, Greg pulls until Tommy's ass is near the edge of the bed. He spreads Tommy's legs wide, and slowly circles rope around each of his ankles and then around the rails at opposite ends of the bed.

Tommy is splayed wide, nothing hidden from Greg's view. Not his body, not his reactions. Nothing. His body tightens, and his breath quickens. The ropes tease his skin with every flex of muscle, not too tight but definitely _there_. 

"Use your words if you need to, Tommy Joe."

Safewording is the last thing on Tommy's mind. A groan – a mash up of hysterical laughter and unadulterated pleasure – tumbles out of Tommy. 

"That is definitely not your safeword," Greg murmurs. He presses a kiss to Tommy's knee and then drops to his knees, taking up the space between Tommy's legs. He nudges Tommy's balls, and scrapes his teeth along Tommy's cock. Then he sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of Tommy's thigh.

And Tommy's desperation becomes a tangible thing.

"Jesus, _fuck_ ," Tommy hisses, searching for a way to rock – to simply _move_ – within his bonds.

"You're not going anywhere, boy." Greg licks over the mark and says, "All you're gonna get with that jerking around is bruises. Stop fighting and focus on the sensations."

Tommy stills for a fraction of a second and then, when Greg blows a stream of air, all warm and moist, over his hole, Tommy curses – _fuck_ , fuck, _fuck_ – and strains against the ropes again.

"You are mine, Tommy Joe." Greg taps a finger against Tommy's hole. " _This_ is mine. Accept it."

Licking his lips, Tommy whispers, "More. Please."

"In time," Greg says.

And then Greg is touching Tommy _every_ where. All hands and teeth and tongue, scratching and licking over Tommy's thighs and balls, around the base of his cock and up over his abdomen. 

Tommy's muscles flex and release. He tries to anticipate the next touch and then, with a stuttered grunt, stops trying to think at all. 

When Tommy goes lax in the ropes and his breaths even out, Greg busses a fast kiss against Tommy's thigh. And then he starts talking, breaking the building silence and adding another dimension to the world Tommy is floating in.

"I have a flogger that would dance across your back and have you begging for more," Greg murmurs. "We're going to take a week, just you and me and finding your subspace. I'm going to take you down slowly and then…"

Between one word and the next, Greg pushes a lube slick finger into Tommy's ass and strokes _in_ and _out_ and _in_ , matching the same lazy cadence of his voice. A gurgle – desire and surprise – bubbles out of Tommy.

"And then, when your entire being is focused on this, on us, on your service to me… then I'm going to take you to the club. Gonna strip you down and chain you to the cross, leave the door open so everyone can hear you, can see you. And then we're gonna work."

Greg works a second finger into Tommy's ass. Tommy pants through the invasion, hips jerking and rolling as much – _as little_ – as the bondage will allow. Without warning Greg adds a third. 

"Shit, fuck _fuck_ … more," Tommy whimpers.

The only acknowledgement to Tommy's pleas is a soft, chaste, barely-there kiss against the bite mark on Tommy's ass. It's enough for Tommy, enough to stopper the flow of babble and refocus him on his senses.

"I want them all to witness how beautifully you suffer for me. How you take everything I give and beg for more." Greg nips just below Tommy's sac. "I want them to see _my_ boy."

When Greg draws three fingers back and immediately returns with the hot cluster of four, Tommy cries out. The burn of the stretch grounds Tommy, tethers him to Greg. And, at the same time, it pushes him higher, giving him an indescribable freedom.

It's a fine line to walk. Dancing between too little and too much, finding the perfect balance of pain and pleasure.

Greg makes it look easy. Takes Tommy places he's never been. 

Greg hits Tommy from the inside and outside at the same time: fingers curling deep within and his teeth drag sharp on Tommy's perineum. The heat in Tommy's belly flashpoints.

There is no way, none what-so-fucking-ever, that Tommy can stop the need, the desire, the absolute necessity, to come.

In the background he hears the slap of skin on skin, knows somewhere in the recesses that it's Greg tugging off. But he's too lethargic, too goddamn boneless to offer more than a grunt of encouragement. 

It doesn't matter, not when, suddenly, Greg's come is decorating Tommy's balls, is sliding slow and slick into the cleft of Tommy's ass.

It's filthy and it's dirty. And Tommy's dick twitches, interested in more despite his totally fucked out state.

It's later, after they're cleaned-up and snuggling under the covers, that Tommy says, "Really thought you were gonna finally fuck me."

"In due time, boy," Greg replies, popping Tommy soundly on his ass. "In due time."

* * *

Tommy rushes through packing his guitar away. As soon as the case is locked, he grabs Adam's arm and hauls – _drags_ – him through the studio and into the bright sunshine outside. Adam follows along, silently, with a bemused look on his face until Tommy grinds to a halt next to the dumpsters. "Um, what the hell?"

"Greg doesn't want to fuck me." 

One of Adam's eyebrows wings high beneath his bangs and his eyes light with laughter. A blush explodes on Tommy's cheeks and he snaps, "It's not funny, dammit."

"Of course not," Adam agrees. His voice is laced, is _flooded_ , with amusement. 

Huffing, Tommy growls, "Don't you fucking take that tone with me."

Leaning against the wall, Adam sighs. "Why do you think he doesn't want to fuck you?"

Tommy nods. At least Adam sounds like he's taking him seriously. "Because he won't. It's been weeks, and no matter what I do, he won't."

Adam shakes his head. "Look, baby, I might not be the one you need to talk to. I think it's great that he isn't pushing you." When Tommy opens his mouth to retort, Adam adds, "But more important, think about what you just said."

Replaying his words, Tommy frowns. "What about it? I want to get laid, he teases and teases and _fucking_ teases but it never happens."

"Never happens, no matter what _you_ do?"

"Exactly." Tommy wishes Adam would just make his damn point so they can get back to the matter at hand. The waiting for _it_ to happen, the anticipation of the whole fucking thing about the actual fucking, is about to kill him.

"From what you've told me, the relationship you're working with him is more about trusting him to know what you need," Adam says. The gentle chiding in his voice brings Tommy up short. "Maybe you should focus on that instead of this burning desire to get at his dick."

Without another word, Adam pushes off the wall and walks away.

* * *

Adam's comment dogs Tommy for the rest of the afternoon, through his shower and the drive over to Greg's house. The words still haven't left him as he fishes the key out from under the mat and lets himself in, kicking off his shoes and heading straight to the kitchen.

As much as he hates to admit it, Tommy is starting to think Adam was right. About more than they were even talking about. Tommy's been trying to control – _fucking up_ – way more than the sex thing.

Jerking the refrigerator open, Tommy starts slamming things down on the counter. "Goddammit."

He's been fighting the cooking thing. And the going out thing. And the motherfucking talking thing. 

"Forget the getting laid, there're bigger issues to deal with. Two months worth of issues," Tommy grumbles as he reaches for the phone. "Good fucking christ. Try fucking up more, Tommy Joe. I dare you."

Eyeing the chicken breasts warily, he dials the first number that comes to mind. "Hey, Mom. Think you can help me do something fast and easy with some chicken breasts?"

* * *

By the time Greg gets home, Tommy has the kitchen set back to rights. Mostly. The Lemon-Herb Chicken is warming in the oven and a vegetable-filled salad is chilling in the fridge. Tommy feels ridiculously accomplished. It's a good start to the weekend.

"Something smells good." Greg leans in and kisses Tommy gently on the cheek. "Did you actually cook, Mr. Ratliff?"

Ducking his head down, Tommy nods. "It's not anything fancy. Just the chicken and a salad."

"Hey," Greg says, "look at me. What's up?"

"Not yet, please," Tommy says, begs.

Greg gives Tommy a hard, penetrating stare and then, nodding once, says, "For now. I'm going to change. Meet you at the table?"

Tommy goes through the process of plating the food and setting the table silently, forming his words in his head. There is a lot that needs to be discussed and both of them – Tommy and Greg – have faults to own up to.

He's pushed the bounds, true enough. But Greg damned sure let him. Tommy wants to know why.

Standing behind his chair, Tommy waits for Greg to take his seat. He doesn't cast his gaze down, doesn't fall into the trappings of the public submissive behaviors that Greg hasn't demanded when they're alone. But the desire to do so is there. It's just one more thing to talk about.

Even after he slides into his chair, Tommy holds his breath until Greg takes the first bite of the chicken. There's still plenty of time for this to blow up in his face.

"This is delicious," Greg says. Then he looks at Tommy, one brow cocked high. "I thought you said you couldn't cook."

Shrugging, Tommy says, "I called my mom. She walked me through it over the phone." Then he cuts a small bite of the chicken for himself and, when flavor bursts over his tongue, smiles. It really does taste good.

Conversations lags to a stop, the room filled with appreciative hums and the sound of cutlery chiming off of the china. 

Leaning back in his chair, sipping his water, Greg says, "It's looking like someone had an epiphany today."

Tommy refuses to give into the urge to look away. "I've been cheating this. For two months I've been cheating both of us."

"You have."

"You let me."

Greg pushes his plate away and then, elbows on the table, leans forward. "True."

The easy agreement from Greg is frustrating. Tommy doesn't know if he wants to laugh, cry, or scream. "Why?"

"I thought it would be better to ease you back into a full time situation." Greg slowly spins his glass on the table. "You'd been out of the scene for a couple of years. Between the tour with Adam and the soul searching, coming to terms with wanting and then seeking out a man… taking it slow sounded like the right way to go about it."

Greg pushes away from the table and steps over to the long buffet against the wall. He rummages in the center cabinet for a minute and then returns with a kneeling pillow. Angling his chair, he sits down and drops the pillow between his feet. "Come here, boy."

Everything starts slotting into its proper place emotionally and the tension building in Tommy begins to bleed away. Going gracefully to his knees, he murmurs, "Sir."

"Gorgeous," Greg whispers, dragging a hand through Tommy's hair. "Given today's display, taking our time was the right way to go about it."

Tommy opens his mouth to argue.

"Hush, boy. I didn't ask for your input." Greg puts a finger over Tommy's lips. "It's not as simple as flipping a switch. You had something once upon a time. You got away from it, answered to no one. Too much change too rapidly would have been nothing more than a death sentence to anything substantial. I want substantial."

Sighing, Tommy closes his eyes. Greg is right. Too much too fast would have killed any possibilities. It just burns that he needed Adam to point his mistakes out to him.

"You had to want it, to _need_ it, as much as I do, Tommy Joe. I knew the want was in there because in those moments when you give it all up, it's beautiful and perfect. It was a matter of waiting for you to find your feet again." Greg presses a kiss against Tommy's forehead. "Anything to say?"

"I wouldn't have figured it out except for Adam." Tommy's voice is low, the words coming out in stuttered starts and stops. He hates these kinds of talks. "I was… I was bitching about not getting laid and he said something that gave me a lot to think about. It was probably good that you had to work late tonight. It gave me more time."

"You surprised me tonight." Greg quirks a grin. "I was betting on needing a lot more talking and heavy scenes, before you figured it out." 

Tommy snorts. How Greg hasn't tied him down and beat him into understanding is a mystery. "You have the patience of a saint."

"Not really. I put in for a week's vacation starting Monday. I know Adam is doing vocals next week, so that leaves you with a lot of free time on your hands." Greg rolls his shoulders in a sloppy, unapologetic shrug when Tommy gives him an incredulous look. "Thought if all else failed, we'd get a cabin in the woods somewhere and I'd take you down the old-fashioned way."

"Thanks," Tommy whispers. "You've been putting in a lot more than I have."

"You're worth it." Greg gives him another one of those chaste kisses. "You go get a fast shower while I clear the table. Meet me in the den in twenty, and we'll talk about vacation plans."

Tommy rolls to his feet easy as you please, the burn in his thighs a welcome bit of pain. It's a solid marker of his progress. "Yes, sir."

Greg's whispered, "Well done, Tommy Joe. So very well done," follows Tommy out of the room.

* * *

Waking slowly, Tommy stretches. The chain running between his wrists to the headboard clinks softly in the early morning quiet. Tommy's lips curl into a smile. The past four days have been… tiring and invigorating, comforting and scary. Complete opposites that meld together, creating something new and inviting.

It's like the chain tying him to the bed and the blindfold blocking out the morning sun. He's trapped, mobility limited and sight taken away. And yet, for the first time in years, he feels completely free.

"G'morning, boy." Greg's words drift warm over the back of Tommy's neck.

Tommy shivers. "Sir."

One handed, Greg works the cuffs around Tommy's wrists open and lets them fall to the bed. Tommy immediately misses the weight – the promise – of them. "Close your eyes, pretty boy. I'm taking the blindfold off now."

"Yes, sir," Tommy mumbles.

"Good boy," Greg whispers, dragging his hand down Tommy's spine as he loosens the blindfold.

As soon as Tommy is unfettered, Greg wraps him up in his arms and pulls Tommy in close to his chest. 

Minutes tick off the clock in silence. Languid, sluggish minutes spent with Greg easing Tommy into a new day. It's Greg who interrupts the stillness. "You did well yesterday."

Blindfolded and bound, dependent on Greg for everything. Tommy had been terrified when Greg slipped the blindfold into place, and then snapped a ring around the base of Tommy's cock and surrounded his wrists in heavy leather. Hours later, with Greg's attention and focus, the rush of desperation had finally given way to an internal peace and Tommy had simply floated. 

"Thank you for that," Tommy says. 

"Trust me to know what you need."

That had been the purpose of the exercise. To break through that final wall Tommy had hidden himself behind. Extreme? Possibly. Effective? Most fucking definitely.

"I do." 

"You do now." The amusement in Greg's voice isn't mocking. Rather it's full of tender pride. "Open your eyes, boy."

Blinking his eyes open, Tommy sighs. The room is darkened, the blinds drawn and the lights off. Only the glow from a few nightlights keeps it from being a complete blackout. 

Greg's fingers scratch through the hairs curled at the base of Tommy's cock. "We're getting rid of these today. I want you bare."

Pushing into Greg's grip, Tommy moans, "Yes, sir."

"Always, Tommy Joe." Greg drags his hand higher, tugging gently on the hairs smattered across Tommy's chest. "Here, too. We'll do it together when you're in town, but I expect you to maintain it when your job takes you away. Understand?"

Tommy's dick fills and jerks against his belly, the cock ring suddenly tight and imposing. "Oh, fuck."

"Answer me," Greg growls.

"Yes." A shudder rolls through Tommy. "Always."

Greg kisses and then nips the back of Tommy neck. "Go start the shower, boy. Make sure it's nice and hot."

* * *

With his ass right on the edge of the bench in the shower, Tommy spreads his legs wide and leans back against the water-warmed tile. The smell of soap and shampoo mingles with the steam filling the glass enclosure. Silent and still, deep in his headspace, he watches Greg fill the space beside him with a cup and a stiff-bristled lathering brush, two straight razors, and a jar of amber oil.

Anticipation slithers within him, flaming the need and want until it's – _he's_ – blue-fire hot, and all he can do is beg. "Greg, please." 

"Easy, boy," Greg soothes, rubbing his hands over Tommy's thighs. "Just breathe with me, baby."

When Tommy settles again, Greg picks up the mug and brush, and whisks the shaving soap into a frothy white lather. 

With the first touch of lather against skin, Tommy lets his eyes flutter shut and sinks into the sensations. 

He's been shaved before, has spent most of his adult life as bare as he could get. None of that has prepared him for this.

This is intimate. Deep and personal, and more erotic than Tommy expected. A whimper bubbles out of Tommy's throat.

The mug makes a small clink against the ceramic tile and Tommy blinks his eyes open, just in time to see Greg pick up one of the straight razors. He trembles when the light gleams and reflects off the sharp edge.

Greg uses his free hand to gently move Tommy's cock to the side. Then, as he brings the blade into contact with Tommy's skin, he says, "Trust me, Tommy Joe. Never more than you can handle."

Then he drags the blade across Tommy's groin in a downward motion.

"I wanted to do this the first night I met you."

Tommy's focus is torn between the rough quality of Greg's voice and the drag- _sweep_ -pull of the razor. 

Greg wipes the blades and then, baring another swath of skin, says, "You were wallowing in it. Arching into each stroke, begging with your words and your body. I wanted to bring you home and strip you bare, take away everything you like to hide behind."

Tommy's length swells and hardens more in Greg's hand with each pass of the straight razor. 

Greg's fingers move down and spread the cheeks of Tommy's ass. "That very first night, Tommy Joe. I've pictured this since that very first fucking night."

Tommy moans as the cold steel skates along the cleft. His hole tightens and clenches and his balls draw up. Orgasm is only moments away.

"Don't you shoot, boy," Greg says, landing a light thump against Tommy's cock.

"I'm holding." Tommy leaves off the very obvious 'barely.' He's holding, barely.

Sitting back, Greg gives Tommy room. Three deep breaths and a lot of cursing, later, Tommy nods.

"Good boy," Greg says. And then moves right back in again.

Greg draws the blade over Tommy stomach and chest, and then clears away the fine hairs on his arms and legs. A circular process of lather and strokes of the razor.

The warmth of the wet cloth replaces the icy touch of the blade. And then, when all of the lather is washed away, Greg leans in and nuzzles Tommy's groin, sucking and biting until a bright red mark blossoms. Tommy curls one hand around Greg's shoulder and purrs. Fucking _purrs_.

He'd be embarrassed if he didn't feel so good.

Snagging the bottle of oil, Greg says, "Let's go back to bed, baby."

* * *

Tommy sinks into the mattress, shivering as Greg's fingers – shiny with massage oil – flit over his freshly shaved skin.

"Arms up, boy," Greg says, a hand at each of Tommy's wrists. "Hold onto the headboard until I tell you to let go."

Curling his fingers around the headboard, Tommy shivers. He's spread out and begging like a slut. Asking for _more_ and _anything_ and _yes, that, please_. Greg drags slick fingers over Tommy's hole and, spreading his legs wider, Tommy cants his hips down and moans – _oh_ and _yes_ and _fuck, fuck, fuck_ – when one finger slides deep into his ass.

"That's it. That's my boy." Greg noses against the juncture of Tommy's groin and thigh, licking and biting and bring another mark to the surface. When Tommy rolls his hips, starts rocking between the finger in his ass and the hot suction of Greg's mouth, Greg pushes another finger in.

Tightening his grip on the headboard, Tommy hisses, " _Christ,_ " and, when the stretch of a third finger quickly follows, " _Jesus_ , fuck."

"Just like that," Greg says. "Keep fucking yourself on my fingers. Take your pleasure, baby."

"Greg," Tommy whispers and speeds up the motion of his hips, chasing the orgasm dancing just beyond his reach. 

He grunts when Greg spreads his fingers, stretching Tommy's hole, then cries out when the tips of Greg's fingers tap against his prostate. When the fingers disappear and he's left open and wanting, Tommy whines. Needy and wanton and _desperate_.

"Shush, boy," Greg murmurs. 

And then the head of Greg's cock is pushing heavy and thick against Tommy's hole and Tommy's so surprised, had been so sure Greg wasn't going to fuck him tonight, he simply reacts, just thrusts down and welcomes Greg's dick into him with no resistance at all. 

"Oh."

Greg's lips quirk into a smile. "Oh."

Tommy squeezes his ass around the hot length of cock and, eyes rolling back, says, "Fuck."

"Again," Greg demands. "Do that again."

Eyes wide, Tommy bears down and tightens around Greg's cock again. The look of absolute pleasure on Greg's face sends a burst of satisfaction through Tommy. _He_ did that, goddammit. Him.

"Grab my shoulders, pretty boy." Greg slides his hands beneath Tommy, his nails raking rough over Tommy's back. "And hold on."

Nodding, Tommy releases the headboard and reaches out with shaking hands. 

Holding Tommy firmly against his chest, Greg hauls them both up until he's resting on his haunches with Tommy straddling his lap. Greg's dick slides a little deeper into Tommy's ass.

A spark of pain zings down Tommy's spine, out over each of his nerves. It's fucking glorious. Tommy drops his head back and moans. "Fuck, yeah."

Greg huffs a chuckle. "Pretty little cockslut." He mouths a string of kisses along Tommy's collarbone. "Come on, work my cock. You know you want to."

Tommy shifts minutely, undulating his hips as much as the position allows, and then curses a blue streak when Greg's cock rubs just right deep inside of him and everything in his world narrows down to cock and ass.

He leans further back, trusting Greg to hold him and rocks, moves forward and back in tiny increments. And then he starts to babble. "Sir, please. _Greg_. More. I need… _Christ_ , I need. More, dunno… something."

Greg says, "As you will, baby."

And, before Tommy begs for – _demands_ – more or less or something, Greg licks over Tommy's nipple once, then twice, then he bites down. Hard.

The sharp stinging pain sends Tommy reeling. His ass clamps tight and his mouth falls open and he comes, lost in the paradox of submission.

* * ♥ * *

**Author's Note:**

> Summary is adapted from a quote by Master Nik: _D/s is filled with similar paradoxes, such as pain/pleasure. Enslavement/freedom. A circular and connected balance to exist between apparent opposites._


End file.
